WW3: Come What Will
by Salty Peanuts
Summary: The world is descending into bloody madness, as a husband and wife try to stay true to their vows, and maintain loyalty to their countries. Will they be able to hold hands through the darkest hours, and save the world from imminent destruction? RoChuAme with a bit of England/France. Want a longer, more serious read? This is for you!
1. 1991- Prologue

Hello, I'm back with yet another series. This is a World War 3 fic, spanning from the fall of the Soviet Union to a few hundred years into the future.

What I can tell you about what to expect (without spoiling it, of course) is that:

- RoChu the main pairing, with a side serving of England/France. Alfred shares a close relationship with Ivan and Yao, and that's what drives the plot forward.

- Yao and Ivan will be a married couple for a good portion of the story.

- The story line is inspired by modern politics, but it's by no means a prediction of what's going to happen a few hundred years from now. I have sensationalized the plot a bit.

So I hope you'll stay tuned! :)

* * *

**1991- Prologue**

For Yao, the past few nights have not been kind at all, staying up until five in the morning signing paperwork and typing reports for his boss. Sleep is for the cowardly.

Though when he hands them in, Yao gets nothing back for his hard efforts but a quick nod and acknowledging grunt. There's no hope for promotion, not even a congratulatory pat on the back for his efforts. No matter, Yao knows this is his job, the same job that he has had for the past four thousand years. It is all the same tedious work, being a nation, despite having to shake hands with a new boss every few years. Nothing comes as a surprise to Yao anymore. He forecasts with fleckless precision, and acts accordingly.

The monotony actually serves as a great distraction from his private life. Admittedly, one of Yao's most dangerous, most prominent vices is his tendency to put off all of his headaches to deal with later, of which his personal matters hold a large share. But, later never comes, and his cloud would just accumulate until Yao finally snaps for good. Then, he'd be back where he started, having not made an inch of progress.

It's an unhealthy cycle that Yao has spun himself into, truly.

The couple hours of precious sleep per night is actually what Yao fears most of all. He'd write them off if he could, but the whole nation of China depends on the well-being of this damned sack of human flesh. These past few nights, whenever he shuts his eyes, all he sees is—

"_Yao."_

_He feels a certain someone loom towards him from behind, and grasp him around the waist. Despite that the man's hold is constricting him, making him barely able to breath, Yao relishes in the warmth. He is allowed this one moment of weakness because, and only because it has been so long. _

"_Yao," the familiar deep, grunting voice repeats, as Yao's heart gives an aching throb, "I want you to come back to me again."_

"_No," is his lightning-fast response. There is no time to think. He doesn't allow it. _

"_Very well, just stand here and listen to me then."_

_Ivan made it sound as if he was giving Yao a chance to escape, like Yao could just freely walk away from the arms that held to him like chains. _

_But, if Ivan did give him a chance, Yao would still choose to stay standing beside this colossal pine tree, deep within the forest that defends the long, winding Sino-Russian border. _

_Ivan takes a deep breath, making Yao shudder. The air through his lips feel colder against Yao's neck than the whistling subarctic breeze. _

"_Everything I've ever done was all for you. Everything." He admits. Ivan's words are slow, but cutting. "Ever since I met you, Yao, I knew I had to make you mine. I knew I had to grow apart from the errant child I was, and become stronger. I built my empire from scratch and won more wars than I can count, just so I could prove my worth to you, that one pretty lady I had met in the palace so long ago."_

"_Am I worthy, Yao?" Ivan speaks out of irony, while Yao continues to look down at his feet. "If you come back to me, love, I swear I'll make everything right again..." _

_Ivan tightens his grip around him, while the other keeps his eyes closed and mouth shut. _

"_I'm sorry that I've hurt you, and no, you don't have to find it in your heart to forgive me. All I ask for is a second chance... There are days when I miss you so much that I don't know what to do with myself..."_

_Yao puts Ivan's hands down gently, and turns around to face him. _

Ivan, I miss you too,_ he thinks, but cannot say. _

_Instead, he silently looks up at him, the man he has not seen in person for over a decade. Ivan has not changed much though. The same hair, same plump, childish face, same eyes, but maybe with darker circles from the sleepless nights he has also suffered through. _

_However, Yao does not allow to rest in nostalgia for long. He knows what must be done, despite the gnawing warmth in his heart._

"_Thank you, Ivan," he says. Standing on tip-toes, Yao gently brushes his chapped lips against the other's cheek, and takes his leave. A mere kiss is all he can muster, and it's enough. As he walks away, Yao intentionally takes steady paces, while half-hoping that Ivan would chase after him. But, he never comes. _

How can Yao forget about the many tender nights they had shared?

He simply can't, even after those nights became rougher and rougher. All the bruises and scars from the battles they fought are still stinging, reminding him of the mortal mistake he had made, giving his trust to a friend he had known for over eight centuries, ever since the man was a child. Oh, he was just the cutest, kindest, most loveable child.

Yao is sick of it, sick of all of the promises that Ivan had ever made to him, which were all betrayed in the end. Ivan had promised to restore Yao to his former glory, just so he could use Yao's weakened state to his advantage. Ivan had vowed to protect him with his life, and for a while, Yao was constantly frightened that Ivan would abandon him, just like everyone else did. But in the end, he became Yao's worst enemy, the man to fear above all of the Western devils.

At first, Yao felt sorry for Ivan. Whenever Ivan collapsed from exhaustion from the drunken, raging fits he had, or was knocked unconscious by Yao himself, Yao would always come back to lull him to sleep. If he didn't do what he could to quell Ivan's madness, the rest of the world would have to deal with it. But as time went on, Yao realized that if he didn't leave, he would be dragged along into this swirling whirlpool that could only go downwards.

The feelings he had for Ivan were beginning to kill him.

And so, Yao left, with nothing to show but a bullet wound on his shoulder that he still wears proudly today, to remind him of the most painful decision he had ever made.

* * *

How can Yao sleep when he is haunted by these memories playing over and over again in his head? Not to mention, for the past few days, all that is buzzing on TV, on the radio, in people's conversations, is the elusive, yet ever so intriguing topic of the "fall" of the Soviet Union— Ivan's grand empire. No broadcasting channel has failed to bring the general public updates about the coups, the riots, the throbbing tension between the beast's internal organs.

The Soviets have always been known for maintaining secrecy, a flawless facade, to an extent of madness. And now, during the last days, they are being exposed to the world to scrutinize, to ridicule.

And for Yao, paranoia works better as an insomnia agent than caffeine ever will.

Yao can care less about the empire itself. The Soviet Union has become more or less of a giant sphinx standing in the way of his own development. So, good riddance it is. Countries rise to power, and fall to ashes. Such is the sad truth, and Yao has had to say goodbye to many of his old friends before. So, he should be used to it, and do no more than gesture a salute and a bid a light farewell.

But this time, it is different.

Ivan's going to die.

He's going to die.

It took a little longer for this notion to sink in, but when it did, Yao's knees gave out, and hit the hard, stone floor of his study in a defeated thump.

In times like these, Yao always tells himself to stay calm, and find logical, effective solutions to the issue at hand. So, from what he has figures, the first rational thing to do is to call Ivan.

The dial tone rings and rings, but no one picks up... Yao's heart sinks. _Damn it._

"_I promise I'll send help, Ivan,_" Yao whispers to the answering machine, more as a vow to himself than anything else, "_I won't let anything happen to you._"

He hangs up. "I love you."

There, he said it, happy?

After settling himself down, Yao figures the next best person to call would be his boss. So, he takes a few deep breaths, gulps down a whole glass of water, and presses the direct-dial to the offices in Beijing.

"_That's good news, if you ask me,_" his boss' lazy voice growls from the speaker, "_Besides, it's their own fault. They were too fucking proud. Closed themselves to the rest of the world, thinking they were better than everyone else. It's only a matter of time before they're eaten inside out..._" Yao heard him hack and spit into the cannister. "_Besides, Yao, why do you care? They were bastards anyways._"

That is when Yao realized that the same thing had happened to him a couple of centuries ago. That idiot Ivan, he had witnessed the fall of Yao's country first hand, and didn't learn a thing!

Yao buries his face into his hands. He isn't going to cry, not yet. He just needs to soothe his nerves somehow, and maybe find someone to talk to, someone he can trust to listen to him rant for a few minutes, a sad excuse for a friend.

He wants nothing to do with Kiku, and since the rise of the Berlin Wall, he has only seen Arthur and Francis a few times in person, but has not spoken a word to them. Which means, there's only one person left— Alfred.

Recently, Yao's been spending quite a bit of time with the kid, more time than he probably should, much to Ivan's spite. Alfred's an alright person, though a little demanding and impulsive at times. Everyone knows about the man's spat with Ivan, and Yao admits that part of the reason why he has inched closer to Alfred is because of it. Yao doesn't like the feeling of being tossed around like a common tramp by the more powerful players, which is why he maintains a safe, cool distance from Alfred, no matter how much the earnest youngster wants to close that gap.

"_Hey babe, you have reached the voicemail of Alfred F. Jones__—_"

Yao tosses the handset to the wall, and after letting out a roar of hopeless rage, he rams his fist into the wooden office table before him. The surface immediately cracks in two, leaving Yao to hiss at his bleeding knuckles. Kicking his chair to the side, he storms out of his office, and slams the door behind him.

Instead of relying on the unreliable, Yao decides to take the matter to his own hands, and go to Moscow himself. While he knows that a single unit doesn't have the power to save a whole nation from dissolving, Yao is determined to see Ivan one last time.

Hopefully after the final goodbyes are bid, Yao may have dreamless nights once more.

* * *

Please tell me your thoughts!

I should be able to update this pretty often. I found these chapters pretty easy to write, so...


	2. 1991- Regrets

Here's the new chapter. More about the fall of the Soviet Union.

* * *

**1991- Regrets**

Alfred flicks the curtains back and takes a peek out the window. The snow is falling ever so lightly tonight, dusting the peaks of the Kremlin like white feathers. The street lamps, neon signs, and candlelight illuminate the pitch-black sky. But in his ears, he hears nothing but silence, no sounds of bustling civilization or roaring of machines. At the corner of his eye, upon the highest roof of the building, stands a flag post that has just been lowered for the last time. Alfred gives it a mock salute, for all it's worth.

Turning around, he grins at the sorry sight before him.

"Merry Christmas, Ivan."

Ivan pretends not to hear the insult. He is sitting on the floor in the corner of the office with his back against the bookcase.

Whistling himself a tune, Alfred takes out his trusty handgun out of his bomber jacket, clicking it into position. He raises his right arm and aims the weapon at Ivan, his one open eye glaring intently at the shadowy figure, marking his precision.

He only has one shot, and he must make it count.

Ivan still chooses not to respond. He is playing with a little wooden figurine of a soldier in his hands, a souvenir from the Imperial times. Leather gloves fondly caress the splintering wood.

Alfred frowns, a tad disappointed that his enemy doesn't look threatened in the least. "You know," he starts again, more firmly this time, "I can kill you right now, if you'd like. Quick and painless, it'd be over in a second."

Ivan yawns, and rolls his weary, sunken eyes. "Go ahead, I won't stop you." He sets the toy aside, and takes out a book to read instead. But, Ivan's display of nonchalance is quickly ruined by his descending into a coughing fit, making drops of blood splatter onto the yellowing pages. He but wipes it off with a sleeve, and turns his attention back onto the Cyrillic letters that are getting blurrier by the second.

"Look at you," Alfred seethes, his patience wearing thin, "You're fucking pathetic."

Still, Ivan does not respond, and continues to flip through the pages of the book without actually soaking in the words. He feels his hands and limbs shiver from the cold, but not in fright. Never in fright.

Alfred dips his forehead into his palm, and stays there for a bit. He honestly doesn't know what to do with this guy anymore... After thinking of a final tactic, he looks up. He walks forward, squats down in front of Ivan, and holds out his hand. "Look buddy," he says lowly, licking his lips, as if to strike a business deal, "before I blow your head off, want to at least call it a truce?"

"Get away from me, you filth!" The beast snarls at the provocation.

Alfred puts his arms in the air, and shakes his head. He _tried_ to talking nice to this guy, he sure did. "Well, what did I say before? You're pathetic alright! Damn Russians don't even want to_ die_ with some honour," he mutters to himself.

"Look who's talking! You're the most pathetic man I've ever met!" Ivan cuts in, and is immediately followed by spell of coughs. He spits into his handkerchief, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "_Alfred. F. Jones._" Ivan says the name slowly, maliciously. His tongue burns at the taste of those words. "The United States of America, spreading your ideological filth to all corners of the world. You think you'll be powerful forever, just because you've defeated me?! That's not how the world works, you fool! No empire has ever stayed powerful until the end of time. Once you rise, you're bound to fall. It's a hard fact for nations like us!"

Alfred sniggers.

"—Think it's funny, do you? Because the prouder you are, the sooner you'll fall, and when you do, I will be laughing in hell."

Some time ago, the same swansong speech was delivered to him by Gilbert Weilschmidt, right before Ivan executed him with a bullet to the head. Oh, bitter is the taste of irony...

"Ivan, dude, let's be serious here for a second, what happened to that big scary guy who said he could beat me at my own game? Look where that ended you! If you had followed your _own_ advice, you wouldn't end up here in the first pl—"

Alfred's arrogance is met by a brunt fist.

"Ow! The fuck was that for?!"

If Ivan's strength was at its full extent, Alfred wouldn't have any teeth left. So, black eye should have been a good bargain in comparison.

But, not for Alfred. He immediately recovers, and stumbles back up to a half-dead Ivan.

"Oh, so you want to play _that_ game, do you? Fine then!"

With a frustrated grunt, he picks up the man by the collar, and throws him against the bookcase, as heavy volumes splatter onto Ivan's head. A dictionary, scientific texts, a car manual...

"I can kill you right now," Alfred tries again, towering over Ivan proudly like the Empire State, "and I wouldn't even bat an eye." But this time, he finds himself snarling his words out through gritted teeth. The kindness, diplomacy, it's all gone.

"Then get it over with! Stop wasting my time!" Ivan hollers back, and immediately shuts his eyes. He doesn't want the last thing he sees to be Arthur's spoiled, rotten rat-child.

"Any dying words, Ivan Braginsky?"

"No."

But, if Alfred _could_ grant him one last wish, which is a silly, hopeless prospect in itself, Ivan would not want his life to be spared. Instead, he would like to see Yao one last time. He wants to remember everything about him, encapsulate in his mind every last thread of memory. His eyes, his hair, his smile, Ivan is afraid that once he goes down under, he'd forget the one person that, for his whole life, has meant everything to him.

This is his greatest fear, not death.

Through tear-filmed eyes, he watches Alfred's hands close around his neck. He can feel his energy being drained away from every vein in his body, and even if Alfred isn't ending his life for him, Ivan knows he would have faded away with time. Alfred's just making his death quicker.

"I win!" Alfred squeals with glee, like a kid playing a game of Risk, "I win!

_Sorry that I've let you down again, Yao_, Ivan thinks, _Sorry that I can't make our dream come true... _

"Alfred, stop!" Echoes a familiar voice from the halls, amidst Alfred's maniacal giggles.

"Who the—?"

Ivan hears frantic footsteps thumping closer, and eventually, the door snaps open. Before Ivan could affirm the person's identity, Alfred's fingers have loosened around his neck, leaving him to gasp for air.

Alfred turns back, completely and utterly shocked. "Y-Yao?"

With no time for a greeting, Yao runs up and wrestles Alfred to the side. After pinning him to the office desk, Yao turns around and takes his first look at Ivan— no longer a strong and fearsome, nor caring and warm, but a decaying, bleeding Ivan who barely has the strength to lift up the corners of his lips for a smile. Yao puts his hand up to his mouth at the sight, trying to muffle his silent scream, as his knees sink to the ground.

"Ivan..." He barely chokes out of his throat, "Ivan..."

Yao crawls up to him, while shaking away from Alfred trying to pull him back. Tears are streaming down his face. He has held it in for so long. He hasn't cried on his way to the airport, nor trying to get past the security forces, and now, he hates himself for not lasting a little longer.

Yao scoops Ivan into his arms, clutching his limp head for dear life and sobbing into the sea of silver locks.

Alfred stands over the two of them silently, arms folded.

After a while, Yao wipes his face clean and turns to Alfred. Taking a huge gulp, he says, while barely able to look him in the eye, "Alfred," his voice is calm, measured, despite the hiccups, "for as long as we've known each other, have I ever begged you for anything?"

Alfred bites his lip. "No, you haven't." He mumbled.

"Then please, don't let Ivan die..."

"W-what?"

"Alfred, do you really think it's right to eliminate everyone who has different views than you?" Yao scolds while protectively holding onto Ivan, as if his arms could keep the cells in his body from dissolving into thin air.

_Well, what the fuck is he supposed to do? Give up after working so hard for this long, or go through with it, and make Yao hate him for all of eternity?_

"I-I..."

A foreign chuckle cuts into the cold atmosphere, dry and disheartened. They both turn their heads; it was Ivan.

"Times have changed, Yao," he croaks, and laughs some more. His Yao is wise, but can sometimes be so stubborn and determined, like a child.

Yao grips his lover's hands, and places a firm kiss upon them. "Yes, yes they have," he mutters bitterly, "But I won't let you be reduced to a page in a history book, Ivan. Do you understand me? I won't allow it!"

"But—" Ivan is silenced by a pair of lips crashing into his own.

Alfred rolled his eyes and looked away. _Can't they take their PDA somewhere else?_

Fine, fine, he'll agree to it, as long as he doesn't have to watch those two do nasty shit anymore. Ivan Braginsky won't die, because Alfred will save his sorry ass. He swears he needs to be nominated for the Peace Prize after this, or get canonized as a saint or something.

**TBC**

* * *

**Note:** After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russian-American relations were on an all-time high. The privatization of the Russian market was strongly supported by the US. More tensions arose in the late 1990's though, and are still pretty tough even now.

Oh Alfred, he's such a delight to write about. Being an exclusive Rochu writer, I don't do Alfie as often as I should. But he will show up very often in this story, because he's an awesome character.

England and France will make their appearances soon.

Thanks for reading!

**Any reviews, suggestions, comments, thoughts are welcome! They are what keep me going, and I am a lot happier to write if I know the people enjoy it.**


	3. 1991- The Coldest Winter

**1991**

"Yao, it's so cold in here..."

"Of course it's cold in here, silly, it's the middle of winter, and you're bleeding to death."

Yao holds Ivan even tighter, letting the other man's head rest upon his chest. Their fingers intertwine, bruised, bandaged knuckles shivering against each other.

The only thing left to do now is hope, and leave the rest to faith. Yao's already done all that he could, and if Alfred keeps to his words, then everything would be fine.

"Sleep, Ivan. You need it."

Ivan seems so tired, too tired to even respond. But to Yao's command, he barely whispers, "No."

"Why not?"

"I don't _want_ to sleep, Yao, because if I do, I may never wake up..." Ivan reaches up, with great effort, to caress Yao's face. As shaking, calloused fingertips sweep over soft skin, Yao's heart gives an aching throb. He hates that even now, Ivan's touch has yet to lose the magic it had on him.

It was the same hand whose caress had so effortlessly seduced Yao into releasing all that had been pent up inside for centuries. When he fell, it saved him. When the two of them treaded across the cold, barren Siberian tundra, that same hand was holding onto his own.

"It's okay, Ivan, I'll be here when you awake, I'm not going anywhere..."

Ivan has become too tired to utter a reply. Yao grips his hands tighter, and from shuddering lips, he tries to utter more false words of comfort, in order to reassure himself than anyone else. He sits and waits until the glowing violet orbs finally dim, and only then does Yao allow himself to blink, letting a single tear drip upon Ivan's cheek. He can feel Ivan's heartbeats become slower, weaker as the minutes tick by. But still, Yao keeps his faith. It is now the only thing left for them to hold onto, the only burning candle in this icy citadel.

Spring will come again, and Yao knows this for a fact. Now, all they have to do is wait. The ice will thaw, and the woes of the past will be silenced. When sunlight kisses their frozen cheeks once more, friendships will mend, and what must be forgotten shall be forgotten.

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.

* * *

It's a Sunday afternoon in Paris, but not the warm and sunny kind that invites the people of this great city to bask in the park, drink wine, fornicate, or whatever Parisians do in their idle time. Instead, grey and gloom splotched upon the sky, like the work of an inexperienced painter. Wet, sticky, cold, it's the kind of weather that is sure to ruin anyone's day, just by sticking his head out the window. But, not Arthur Kirkland's. He was born and raised in, and _is_ the personification of England, which is just one large storm cloud in itself.

So he does today what he always would— stay inside, lean his back against the sofa, prop his feet upon the ottoman, and grab for the nearest item with printed words, the newspaper, in which he would immerse himself to feign disinterest.

Today's headline reads, _"Declaring the Death of the Soviet Union"_

...Arthur's eyes widen in shock.

Before anything else, he takes deep breaths to calm his pounding heart, and proceeds to read the article, despite that it's in French. Arthur galls at his own thorough, complete understanding of the accursed language, but not anymore than the decision he had made, to spend the rest of his eternal life with the author of this disgrace to linguistics.

Arthur supposes it's the same for all old couples. After a while, one gets annoyed with every little thing about his partner. Especially how Francis, who is seemingly elegant and refined, walks like a crippled duck when they're not in public, like how he's walking out of the kitchen right now. The man takes a seat next to Arthur, and sets a mug of freshly made coffee upon the table. Arthur doesn't hesitate to seize the drink and take a big, hot gulp.

"What are you reading?" Francis asks serenely, despite that this unusually long neck has been stretched taut, his bearded chin resting upon Arthur's shoulder, giving himself an open glance.

Arthur doesn't answer his question. Uttering something aloud would pull it out of abstraction and into reality. He would rather stay hanging in the cloud of uncertainty, which, at the moment, is the most stable mental position in which to remain.

_So, even Ivan couldn't stop him..._

Then, who could? Surely fire can no longer be fought with fire. But at the same time, the last thing Arthur ever wants is to witness a global apocalypse at the hands of the very child he had raised with his own two hands. Alfred is young, naive, and now the only superpower left standing. It's a hazardous mix, a recipe for destruction, and if Alfred were to be lead astray, Arthur wouldn't know how to live with himself. So upon learning about Ivan's fall, Arthur felt that, in a way, he had lost his own war.

However, he chose not to confide in Francis about his insecurities, and has stayed silent for many years now. There's no need to. Francis cooks, cleans, goes about his normal daily life, singing those blasphemous show tunes every hour of the day. He has no crosses to bear, and nothing to bring wrinkles upon his flawless, gleaming complexion. Arthur would be cruel to cast flames upon the heaven in which Francis had been cocooned.

Besides, the man knows Arthur better than anyone else, and can read his mind like a novel. If there's something troubling Arthur, Francis would always know, even if he doesn't mention it upon first glance.

In response from earlier, Francis bites his lip indignantly, determined to not be ignored. Sharp blue eyes scan the yellowing newspaper page, and roll back up to meet green ones. Sighing, Francis puts a hand on Arthur's shoulder, and gives it a light squeeze. "What do we do now?" He asks. It seemed like it only took half a second for Francis to understand Arthur's struggle.

"What do you think?" Arthur gives his acerbic reply, smirking, "Be a coward and surrender like you did?"

* * *

**1997**

When spring came, they meet in the forest again. The burdens in their chests have finally been lifted, and they can now face each other with a new smile. The ice has thawed, and water pools above the soil like puddles of black paint. The cranes have yet to return from the south, in fact, any sign of life has not fluttered out of hiding.

For minutes now, they have settled into an impasse, not having done anything but stare at the other. Their expressions stay as still as the water of the bog, as if in competition of whose unwritten thoughts would be the first to resurface, a competition that Yao is willing to lose.

He collapses forward, and squeezes Ivan into a tight embrace.

"You've finally come through..." He murmurs into the worn fabric of Ivan's trench coat, which is still doused with the scent of hard liquor, despite his waning health.

Ivan laughs at the comment. His voice has a bit of a grit to it, like if he had a cold. Letting out a defeated sigh, Yao sinks deeper into Ivan's embrace. He is just glad to have him back, even if he's not the same old.

"Yao..." The name tastes sweet, like the first drop of water on a parched tongue. Ivan relishes in the sound for a few seconds before continuing. "Yao, of course I would come back to you. When I was standing at the gates of hell, listening to the Devil's cries for me to join him, I refused. I told him that I was already the slave of another man, one more calculating and cruel than he."

Yao giggles, as Ivan bends down to kiss his forehead. To be honest, he'd rather hear Ivan say how he truly felt, even if the truth stings a little.

What more did you expect? They're nations. They were silly, foolish, new at this thing called love, and didn't know how to express their feelings any other way but to hate. Hate the other for making him feel this way, and themselves for succumbing to the curse.

"Don't _ever_ scare me like this again, do you understand?" Yao growls.

"Yes," Ivan responds meekly, combing his fingers through the other man's black locks. All the knots, dirt, and grime must be freed. "I love you. I won't fight you anymore, and waste the brief amount of time we have left together. I have already accepted that I'm stuck with you for the rest of my life, Yao. Even if you take me into your hands right now and swallow me whole, I'd be more than willing, because I know I'm not any better than you are. We're all the same. We're both torn, broken souls struggling for the chance at salvation."

Ivan has changed so much over the years. He's no longer the overgrown child with a big mouth and a knack for breaking things. He's been through a lot, too much for a nation of his age. His wings have been battered so many times before he could soar into the skies.

"I won't leave you again," Yao promises. He looks up at his lover, stands on his tiptoes, and leans over for a mere ripple of a kiss. "Remember? I was your wife for over eight hundred years, ever since we met during the Golden Horde." He laughs. "I do believe it was one of the first things you ever said to me, your idea of a morning greeting."

"You still remember that?" Ivan asks, surprised.

"Of course silly. I'm too old to not remember everything that happens. Otherwise, my mind would be a blank page..."

Though no one said anything aloud, that day, Ivan Braginsky and Wang Yao made a vow to never be apart again. It doesn't matter that they're nations, and have thousands of other promises to keep. They have a right to pursue their dreams like every other human on Earth, to love and be loved, even if the road beneath their feet will be longer, harsher.

_A few hundred years from now, when the whole world is in flames, our ghosts will dance the wind together. _

* * *

And they lived happily ever after!

Just kidding.

The story has just begun. :D

You can already tell that their relationship is strained from the start.

**Feedback, please!**


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